


May You Sleep Then

by PlaneJane



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-02
Updated: 2013-01-02
Packaged: 2017-11-23 10:28:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/621116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlaneJane/pseuds/PlaneJane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Morgana is more than taken by the arrival of the spirited Morgause.</p>
            </blockquote>





	May You Sleep Then

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by an exchange between Morgana and Morgause in episode 208, Sins Of The Father. Originally posted on Livejournal in Feb. 2010.
> 
> The title comes from a fragment from a poem by Sappho:
> 
>  
> 
> _The gods bless you_   
>  _May you sleep then_   
>  _On some tender_   
>  _girl friend's breast._

She is everything Morgana is not; sun-kissed, forceful, agile and so very self-assured.  This woman knows how to turn the sword, and the head.  She turned Morgana’s.  She fills her with longing, growing more urgent by the minute.

Morgana enters her chamber and introduces herself. “I am the Lady Morgana,” and the word _lady_ sticks in her throat. She is embarrassed.  Morgause already knows who she is, that much is obvious, and it’s clear she doesn’t care for titles like _lady_.  For the first time, it sounds like something faintly repulsive, so in attempt to brush over what she just said she quickly adds, “I get the feeling I know you. Have we met before?”  What she means is _I want to touch your hair, to smell your skin._

All Morgause says is, “You look tired.”   Morgana feels her heart sink.  She has never known want like this.  She is told she has never to _want_ for anything.  (Uther's guilt has been assuaged by indulging her every material whim, and he will even entertain her dissension, if the mood takes him).  Yet she knows wanting like it is part of her skin.  Now she feels it like an itch just out of her reach.

She says, weakly, “I have not been sleeping,” and feels pathetic.  Suddenly her gaunt femininity feels like a mockery of womanhood before this beauty, so determined and powerful.  Morgause looks comfortable in her skin.  She would not blanch at the mention of magic.  She would not be afraid of the night. 

Morgana is gracious and hates herself for it.  When Morgause touches her hand it feels like the stars are dancing on her skin.  She realises later that this is desire. The last time she had felt even a glimmer, it was so long ago; back when she and Arthur still used to tussle.  His voice had broken that summer and she had seen Uther frown at their rambunctiousness.  Now it was no longer fitting for a lady or a prince to behave in such a way.  Their final time, in an aggressive parry, Arthur had driven hard and she had dropped her sword.  At fourteen he outstripped her in weight and stature, and in skill, too.  She fell and took him with her.  As they lay panting, still flushed with the exertion, she felt the hard line of him, pressed against her thigh and it shot a jolt of excitement between her legs.  Then it was gone, evaporated in the burn of the blush and the awkwardness of their youth.  After that things between them soured.  She wonders, briefly … then dismisses it.

The night comes.  Gwen leaves.  Her parting look of pity grates on Morgana’s nerves.  Since when did a lady become the object of pity to a serving girl?  She checks herself at the uncharitable thought; Gwen has been her loyal friend through everything.  But Gwen doesn’t understand _this_. Gwen is wholesome, and maybe not so refined, but she is clever and wields her passion like a sword.  Even Gwen is more woman than she.  She loves her, yet can’t help but be jealous.

Morgause has made her restless, unsettled.  Morgana wants to know her, even though she is intimidated, daunted.  She has never met a woman with so much purpose; undeterred by the might of men.  Morgause is brazen and brave.  Morgana is in awe.  She thinks Morgause could show her how to feel like the woman she would like to be.  

She is not wrong.

Morgana shifts in the bed.  The days of fighting and tumbling with Arthur are long gone and she knows her muscles have weakened, her flesh has gone soft.  She runs her hands over the top of her nightgown, over her breasts and her stomach, and thinks, _what’s the point? I should try to sleep_.

The room is soft dark blue as the moonlight shines in.  Her dreams are black.  Except for the light which is bright, bright white.

Morgause is wearing a nightgown, and stands at the foot of the bed.  She looks at Morgana and smiles warmly.

Morgana sits up, startled. 

“Don’t they teach you anything here?” Morgause laughs sweetly, but Morgana feels like she is mocking her.  She isn’t sure what the question means.

Morgana shakes her head, puzzled.

“Not even the boy, Arthur? He looks able, if not willing.”

Now she gets it.  The thought is … unthinkable. “His heart belongs to another,” she says before the realisation forms properly in her mind.  Oh.

“I see,” Morgause laughs, like she already knew. “And yours?”

“I’m … No.”

Morgause moves to the side of the bed and sits herself down. “What happens when those suitors come a calling? Do you plan to amuse them with your wit and your embroidery?”

Morgana thinks she is being baited, and the familiarity of it stings.  Morgause is a lot like Arthur; too much.  She sets her jaw and sounds peevish. “What would you do? “ 

“You are a beauty, Morgana. But when your lover is pressed between your thighs, it takes more than a pretty face and good connections to light the fire of passion, and keep it aflame.” The words that trip so easily from Morgause’s lips make Morgana flush and send jolts of heat through her body. “I’m going to put some colour in those pale cheeks of yours.”

Her hair like gold brocade falls lazily about her shoulders and Morgana laments all the things Morgause is, that she is not.  When Morgause unlaces Morgana’s nightgown and says, “Show me how you do it, when the maid is gone,” Morgana cannot help but comply.

She lifts her gown over her head and lays back down.  Then she moves her fingers slowly, stopping at her milk-white breasts.  The pale pink nubs of her nipples respond eagerly to her touch.  Her gasp is soft, controlled.  One hand continues to move downwards, slowly, hesitant at her belly.  She splays her fingers, deciding, maybe, which way to go.

Morgause removes her gown.  Her limbs are contoured and firm, her stomach tight and rippled and her breasts pert.  She steals Morgana’s breath.  Morgause has markings, runes, tattooed on her hips, and as she lifts her leg to climb onto the bed Morgana sees them also at the top of her thighs.  Her mouth goes dry.  Morgause lays a gentle hand on top of Morgana’s and says again, “Show me.”

First Morgana’s fingers brush past the coarse hair, still fragrant from her bath.  She teases her middle finger around the nub she finds there, drawing deep gasps.  It never feels this good when she does it alone.   She parts her legs wide and slides her finger between the soft folds of flesh, now growing wet and hot.  Her cunt is moist and opening already.  Her finger slides in easily, until the heel of her palm rests on the hard rise of bone at the top of her sex. 

Morgause lies down and whispers, “That’s it. Let me watch you, let me hear you.” She licks at Morgana’s earlobe, and it sends a shiver, a wave of pleasure shooting through her.  She moans.  Morgause rewards her by leaning over her, and licking around her nipple.  She nips and sucks and Morgana mewls out loud.  Her hips buck up into the pressure of her finger and her palm.  She stimulates her sex; presses up with her hips, down with her hand, until she sets a rhythm that has her glowing with heat. 

Morgause watches, stroking Morgana’s breasts so her whole body is alight with feeling.  Then she says hoarsely, “Let me show you something.” Morgause prowls deliberately over Morgana, her hair caressing her already sensitised skin as if she knew how electrifying it would feel.  Settled between Morgana’s open thighs Morgause sucks and bites at her warm flesh and Morgana thinks she will burn from the inside.  Morgause pushes Morgana’s hand aside, takes her soaked finger into her mouth and sucks her juice from it.  Then, using her thumbs to part the flesh she slides her tongue into Morgana’s cunt. 

Morgana fucks herself on Morgause’s tongue, crazed with the pleasure, spreading outwards from the meeting of her thighs, down her shaking legs to her toes. She presses her head into the pillow, and pushes her hips up needily.  Morgause is as relentless at this as she is with the sword.  She presses with her tongue, rubs with her thumbs.  When Morgana’s gasps get louder, more insistent, she pushes harder. 

With an unfettered cry that is almost a scream Morgana comes, the pulsing clench of her cunt squeezing round Morgause’s tongue.   The orgasm is intense and leaves her limp. 

Morgause crawls up the bed, over Morgana, and stares for a long time, studying her. “So much fire,” she says proudly, fondly. “He hasn’t tamed you yet.”  Morgana wonders, briefly, if she means Uther.  But she is too exhausted to ask.

Morgana sleeps.

She is awoken past noon by Gwen.  She shifts in her bed.  She feels the ache in her thighs, the wetness between her legs, and blushes as she vaguely recalls a dream.  Then she sees the bracelet on the table; Morgause.

Morgana smiles brightly; feeling refreshed, alert and empowered.  But when she learns Morgause is gone it feels like her skin is pulled too tight.  

The nights are long and filled with dreams. But now, not all of them are nightmares.  
  



End file.
